Stillness
by zentaylor
Summary: Sherlock wants to know just what happens to his body when he's with John.


Sherlock finished tugging off his t-shirt and sat in the middle of the bed, legs crossed at improbable angles. He threw one of his socks at John, who stood in the doorway becoming irritated because he couldn't toe off his trainers without undoing the laces.

'You've got to admit that it's interesting.'

'Yeah, it is, but – will you stop throwing your socks at me, please? – I don't think you'll be able to manage it.'

'You misunderstand me, John. I'm not attesting that I _can_ stay completely still, I'm just wanting to know how still it's possible to stay.'

'While I suck you off?' John kicked his trainers triumphantly into a corner and caught another sock that was flung at him. 'Or do you want a handjob instead?'

'Umm…' The detective pondered, lying back and removing his boxers only to throw those at John, too, 'I think a blowjob will be more suitable.'

'Right.'

More leisurely during the removal of his own attire, John had tossed his jumper across the back of a chair and his hands were on his belt buckle when he met Sherlock's sloe-eyed gaze.

'Will you strip for me, John?'

'Only if you touch yourself,' came the immediate reply.

The detective answered with a chuckle, deep and dark. Colossally he stretched, inhaling a great lungful of air and transfixing John with the xylophone of his ribcage. Sherlock's limbs seemed to lengthen, to unfold themselves from their joints; his fingers and his toes flexed and reached out to the air, a Vitruvian angel. John held his breath, too. A few seconds expanded and created silence before the soft sound of exhalation signalled the relaxing of muscles. Sherlock trailed a languid hand up a languid thigh.

That delicate upward sweep of fingers was for a moment the room's only point of motion, save for the rise of colour in John's cheeks; the pretty flush would always begin at his neck and ears before blooming over weathered cheeks. His own fingers hovered still over shirt buttons as he basked in the heat of his growing arousal. Watching Sherlock arch his back gently and caress his chest with ample palms, John felt familiarly his pulse trip, his cheeks glow and his justlicked lips open to accommodate the breath he needed.

It seemed an age before Sherlock touched his own cock. His contented hiss snaked to John's ears, causing an eager tongue to press through teeth and lips as if to taste his lover on the air. Only when he had watched once, twice, thrice Sherlock's hand softly wrap around and over his erection did John begin work on his buttons.

Sensing this, Sherlock's pleasureshut eyes opened and he smiled, making dark thick secret noises in his chest as John took off his shirt.

As slowly as shadows John unbuckled his belt and easily slid loose denim from his hips. He followed these with his boxers and watched Sherlock's bicep tense relax tense relax tense relax as fast his heartbeat. Feeling beautiful and powerful, he stood and preened. He stood like a god in the windowpaned sunlight, running fingers through his sandy hair and down his chest, hand on cocked hip.

'Yes, John. Yes, yes, yes.' The detective slowed his hand. 'You are the most beautiful human being. And you're going to make me come. And then there won't be an experiment.'

Smirking, John approached the bed and climbed on to sit between Sherlock's legs. 'Then, unfortunately, you'd better keep that pretty hand still.'

Sherlock did so.

'Remind me of what we're doing,' John said, warmly stroking Sherlock's strong thighs and rutting against them, 'I'm not sure my brain is getting enough oxygen to carry out any complex instructions.'

Sherlock sat up and pressed a kiss to John's forehead before flopping back onto the pillows. 'I want to see how still I can stay whilst you're pleasuring me, what involuntary things the muscles do before and during orgasm. All you need to do is suck my cock with your usual prowess.'

He smiled angelically, sincerely, as if he'd just made the most normal request in the world. John blinked for a little while, letting the words _suck my cock_ replay in his head in the detective's voice. It sounded like rusted velvet.

'I think I can manage that. Can I kiss you first?'

'I was hoping you might.'

'Good. I'll tell you when you have to stay still.'

On his hands and knees above Sherlock John hovered, loving and being loved. Lips met, a ghost-tender kiss which soon became rough with tongues and teeth. Dipping his abdomen and answering Sherlock's moans with a growl of his own, John rubbed their erections together once. Then came the hushed order of: 'stay still.'

Sherlock froze and closed his eyes. Intrigued, John kissed once more his lips and shivered because they were motionless, even less responsive than in sleep. The cupid's bow was made of hot glass. It was strange and glorious and he tasted its stillness just because he could, feeling only a heart thrum beneath Sherlock's skin.

Then he moved down to settle once more between knees. Sherlock's stillness was absolute, a statuesque arrangement of bone, muscle, skin. Almost marble save for the blush surrounding Sherlock's cock which made John think of a rose, an absolute rose. With this image in his mind his lips parted; opened; took. It was odd – there was none of the usual groaning or movement, only an intake of breath which floated soft over city sounds from the open window. He dipped his head, licking with the tip of his tongue from Sherlock's silken head to the base and back again. Abdominal muscles minutely quivered. He retraced his steps, marking out the same trail but this time with parted lips and tongue flattened, encasing Sherlock's length entirely; it was hot and heavy and tasted sweet.

After several slow and silent seconds, John let Sherlock's cock fall from between his lips wetly and said, 'you have to breathe, love.'

Conceding this point, his lover's ribcage huffed open with a gulp of breath and he panted, tossing his head once, his brows drawn tightly together, biting his lips. John reapplied his mouth and watched Sherlock's form dance. He sucked hard and swiped his tongue from base to tip and from dripping tip to base; a touch of teeth caused Sherlock to gasp and almost double up. Briefly John felt fingers grasp his head. He heard a low growl, frustration, and so he slowed his jaws until Sherlock relaxed slightly, until he was further away from the edge with slack hands back upon the duvet.

John knew that Sherlock was incredibly close. He suckled on precome, tasting pleasure, his heart singing because Sherlock could no longer keep silent as well as still. There were no distinct grunts or moans – he was too far gone for that – a rivulet of sweat ran down his chest to the accompaniment of desperate keening which swayed in pitch and sounded like angels. Thigh muscles trembled, alternately contracting and relaxing in a staccato rhythm which matched the motions of John's mouth.

Within moments Sherlock's body was a sudden rage of tremors and the downsoft flesh which encased his upper thighs rippled as the muscle beneath was taken by involuntary shuddering. This tip of his cock was at the back of John's throat and the hot tunnel swallowed it up again and again until his stomach clenched and his hips bucked and his back arched and his breath came fast and shallow.

Everything paused whilst Sherlock balanced on the precipice of orgasm. Before John felt come splash in spurts down his eager throat, he pondered abstractly the beauty of what he was witnessing. These primal, unconscious reflexes were a gift, for him alone and seldom seen. It was as though electric shocks were being passed through Sherlock's body, from the tips of the hairs on his head to his fingers and toes in waves which grew and grew in intensity until he cried out like an animal. John swallowed with glee every drop of come that Sherlock gave him as he gripped with strong hands his spasming thighs and closed his eyes to swim in the sounds he made, allowing them to take him to a similar place where every thrust against the bedcovers made the edges of his vision blur and his spine burn. Taming his own hips as Sherlock's began to still, he waited.

As the pulses and contractions faded, Sherlock softened between John's gentle lips and he quietened. His eyes stayed shut until John climbed to sit astride the rapid tide of his chest and dripped translucently onto it a drop of precome. With a hand he wiped from Sherlock's eyes damp strands of too-long fringe.

Wordlessly, a mouth opened. It was John's turn.


End file.
